


The First Step

by Elvewen



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:39:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5473136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvewen/pseuds/Elvewen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Himring, during the winter of 473rd year, of the First Age, they’ve taken the first step, into something different</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Step

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jardindesetoiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jardindesetoiles/gifts).



> for jardindesetoiles :)
> 
> Russandol - Maedhros  
> Findekáno - Fingon  
> Makalaurë - Maglor  
> Pitya/Pityafinwë - Amras  
> Carnistir - Caranthir  
> Artaresto - Orodreth

He went into it with open eyes. If he was going to begin something, anything with Russandol, it would have to be quiet, secret, transient, because Russandol had obligations. Truthfully so did he, but his were of the ‘marry and produce an heir’ variety not an oath sworn with the powers and Eru himself as witness with the bloody everlasting dark… 

Either ways, Findekáno knew that if he betrayed the first sign of need—need for comfort or affection or redemption or love - Russandol would be utterly lost. And Findekáno didn’t want to put him in such a position. And because despite all his skill in rhetoric; Russandol never truly believed he deserved anything – neither fealty nor forgiveness nor love. So he willingly locked up any flickers of feelings he might have about his cousin and came up with a clever line about an hourglass and a tacit invitation for a nightcap. Which he executed flawlessly, to his considerable relief. He’d practiced saying it in the mirror until he could do it without flinching, without looking away, without grinning embarrassedly or blushing or giving away just how green he really was to this. And how much he wanted. Russandol had taken it in stride (he could never do anything less), and the sex had been—well. Frankly, it had been mind-blowing, at least for Findekáno. 

It’s been over 4 centuries since then, and they’ve slept together countless times. Findekáno feels that he is handling it admirably well. True, sometimes a council will be called and Findekáno will suddenly remember what Russandol looks like naked, which makes him blush, or Russandol will put a hand on Findekáno’s shoulder and Findekáno will startle and stumble, but that’s all just normal an incestuous-affair-with-cousin relationship. Findekáno supposes so, anyway. The heart of that matter is that he doesn’t ask for anything more from Russandol, and as far as he is concerned, he never will. 

But it isn't Findekáno who changes things.

Down the road, maybe, once lines have already been crossed and rules broken, Findekáno is responsible for many of the feelings that eventually entangle them like spiderwebs, thick and dense and impossibly tangled. But not now. Not this first time, on the night that sets everything in motion far more than a quip about an hourglass does. No, this—this first shift, the first step over the lines which Russandol himself has drawn—this is Russandol’s doing. 

It’s the night Russandol comes back after a border skirmish. 

There is nothing particularly noteworthy about this skirmish. 

The harsh winters of Himring means that orcs and other foul creatures are fewer in number – fewer but not absent. What was unusual was for the Lord of Himring to join a very ordinary border patrol – especially while he has visitors. It must not have gone well, because when he finally joined Findekáno, he smells heavily of the salve used in the healing chambers. He smells of that and smoke.

He tells Findekáno of those who gave their lives in defence of these lands – or rather life. Just the one. And then he walks into his study, where Findekáno can see him standing, not moving, staring dully across the room. After some time of this, Findekáno realizes that someone is going to have to do something about it.  
Beleriand, for all its beauty, causes more than its fair share of pain and agony and grief — Findekáno knows that as well as anyone—and one might think they’d all get better at dealing with it as time goes on. But they don’t, not really. Findekáno considers the likelihood of any of his cousins proving useful to Russandol tonight. Makalaurë springs to mind first, as he often does. He and Russandol share a very painful sort of bond – one forged by shared pain and grief and love. But in the absence of his brother, Makalaurë is the one the soldiers would turn to and he would be needed this night. He left shortly before his brother walked in. Carnistir has come and gone, too (not that Findekáno would dream of sending him to deal with anyone’s feelings, ever); he greeted him in council the other day. But Carnistir’s moods were a mystery to everyone. He loved his brothers, in that particular brand of feanorian love – a love filled with grief and anger and loss. And that very love made it difficult for him to even be with them sometimes. Or so Makalaurë had once tried to explain to him. Findekáno doesn’t know what to think of that, except that clearly Carnistir will not be of any help tonight. 

There’s Pitya, of course, and he at least has noticed Russandol standing dully at his window, still wearing his cloak. He’d be willing to try, Findekáno would wager, but he shouldn’t have to, not tonight. He doesn’t have to say anything for Findekáno to know that that night, many years ago; he lost someone very dear to him. And that loss scars him to this day, more so than it does his brothers. And that loss is why he fights, over any oath.

So they have a silent conversation from across the room and he jerks his head at the doorway, telling him to go. Pitya inclines his head gratefully as he leaves, jaw clenched and face drawn. 

And then it’s just down to Findekáno. 

He puts on his ‘King Findekáno greets his dearest cousin’ persona, the one he’s crafted from centuries of keeping his practise and avoiding undue attention to them: calm, confident, affectionate without being tender. He can hide a lot behind that front (and of course he has) but tonight he is only masking trepidation, the flutter of worry that Russandol will not want him to try and help. He squares his shoulders and walks up the stairs to Russandol’s study.  
He knocks, but when Russandol doesn’t answer, he goes in anyway. Russandol barely acknowledges his presence, still staring into space with haunted eyes. The smell of smoke is strong enough that Findekáno wants to cover his nose and mouth, but he resists, keeping his expression mild. 

“We’d better get you out of that cloak” 

Russandol half turns his head to face him. “I appreciate your eagerness Findekáno, but I’m not really up for it tonight,” he quips bleakly. At least, Findekáno hopes very much that he is joking, both because he finds it embarrassing and a little heart breaking that Russandol might think him so insensitive as to ask for more of him tonight, and because Russandol refusing him with such grim seriousness is, in Findekáno’s experience, unprecedented. 

“I only meant that it smells of smoke, Russandol. I’ll put it away.” 

Russandol doesn’t flinch, but its close. He allows Findekáno to slide the cloak off his shoulders, making no effort to help or hinder him. His eyes are faintly red and Findekáno wonders with a tiny shock if he’s been crying. 

Russandol is often inscrutable, Findekáno thinks (not by any means for the first time). He keeps himself very distant from those around him, the people he sees every day, the people he fights with and stares down life or death with; they know much about him and yet almost nothing about him, and while he’s ready with a comforting hand for whomever needs it, be it his brothers, his cousins, his soldiers or his people, he rarely betrays so much as a sliver of his own emotions. 

And yet from time to time they encounter something — a certain man, a particular incident, a lost traveller in the wilderness — that seems to crack through Russandol’s impenetrable shell, turning up feelings of shocking depth and resonance. He’ll never let Findekáno so much as glimpse what’s going on inside his head, but the loss of one soldier, that he would never allow himself to be affected by under normal circumstances, sparked feelings of pain and sorrow and, now, this dull, listless grief. 

“Your clothes, Russandol,” Findekáno says quietly. “They smell of smoke, too.” 

Russandol nods and reaches for the buttons of his shirt. Findekáno arrests his motion with a brief touch on the wrist. 

“Why don’t we get into the bath?” 

Russandol allows Findekáno to lead him through to his silent quarters, where a huge, canopied bed has already been made. But the fire has gone out and the whole room is cast in silver moonlight, making it seem more sparse and abandoned than it really is. A screen on the side hid the tub, polished and laid with precious metals and stones – ‘Curufinwe’, Findekáno thinks, ‘pure silliness’. Findekáno begins to unbutton Russandol’s shirt, trying not to breathe in the pungent fumes too deeply. 

The most painful parts Russandol’s history is swathed in great vast shadows of obscurity, by Russandol’s own design. His decades of torment in Angband were not something he ever so much as hinted at – well, after the first few weeks since he brought him back that is. Those weeks however, Russandol rarely spoke – just screamed and whimpered and pleaded in Findekáno’s and later Makalaurë’s steady grip. But after those few weeks, everything was carefully sealed away behind the impenetrable façade that was Prince Maedhros. Never betraying a sign of weakness or doubt – even now, as they debated whether to strike Morgoth yet again, after the utter disaster that was Dagor Bragollach. 

Findekáno folds up Russandol’s tunic and lays it neatly on the counter, then, after a moment’s hesitation, begins removing Russandol’s trousers. 

Russandol always looks far older than he is… He doesn’t know if it is the weight of princedom finally too much for his shoulders to bear, if it is his lovingly crazy family and their Eru forsaken oath, if it about last few days – the councils for yet another strike on Morgoth – ‘the Union of Maedhros’, Artaresto called it…As if Findekáno was any less willing. But Russandol had laid a hand on his, stopping any disagreement. Later, his cousin said to him, “If this all goes wrong Káno, then let me be the one to bear the blame. And it should be me. Our people will then need you more than ever.” And he would hear no objections. 

Findekáno wonders if Russandol watched the boy die. And yes, it was a boy – Ulwith – one of Ulfang’s soldiers. He wonders if Russandol thinks of death, at times, with something other than simple fear. If Russandol is as weary as he appears sometimes, secretly, when no one can see, maybe death, however empty and full of nothingness it is, holds a kind of sacred fascination for Russandol. Maybe tonight, his tears weren't only for Ulwith’s passing: maybe they were for Russandol remaining in it. 

“Russandol?” Findekáno says, because Russandol is naked before him and still not moving. Russandol merely looks at Findekáno — through Findekáno — with empty eyes, so Findekáno reaches behind him, hiding his mounting concern, and turns on the tap. With a gentle push, he steers Russandol into the tub. After a moment, the hot water seems to awaken Russandol, and he picks up the soap. 

Findekáno retreats with ill-disguised relief. His pulse is fast and his palms are sweaty. Every time he sees Russandol naked, a shudder of strangeness passes through him like a lightning bolt. He’s fine with laying with a man, it doesn’t bother him, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t even now, a little surprising and a little unsettling. He’d never been attracted to a man before Russandol, and he can’t help but wonder why Russandol seems to be the sole exception. Then again, Russandol is the exception to most of his rules. 

The sex, so far, has been astonishingly good, too. Russandol is—well, he’s clearly more experienced than Findekáno and it’s not as if Findekáno was exactly a model of virtue growing up. Findekáno likes it, wants to keep doing it, certainly; he hopes, too, that Russandol will start initiating their encounters soon (he’s running out of clever proposition lines). He does worry that he’s more eager than Russandol — though it’s hardly as though Russandol’s enthusiasm can be doubted once they begin. All in all, Findekáno thinks he’s managing to keep his head above water all right, however out of his depth he does sometimes feel. He’s learning the strokes, as it were, testing the currents, steering clear of dangerous debris like feelings and need. 

“Findekáno,” Russandol says hesitantly, and Findekáno looks up, blinking with surprise. Russandol is standing by the screen, still naked and dripping all over the floor. His skin is bright red, as if he’s been scrubbing it vigorously. 

“It won’t come out. The smell.” 

Findekáno’s stomach flips over as he worries that Ulwith’s death triggered some disruptive reaction in Russandol’s head and now he’s stuck in the moment of trauma. But when Findekáno comes closer he can tell that Russandol is right. He does still smell faintly of smoke. 

How did he get so saturated with the stuff without being affected by it? It’s one of those Russandol mysteries, a question for Findekáno to ponder later, when he’s alone and can’t sleep. Right now he has a more pressing question to answer: how to get Russandol clean. 

“Well,” he says doubtfully, assessing the situation. He picks up a fresh flannel and considers telling Russandol to just keep washing, but Russandol’s limbs are limp in a way that suggests he’s not going to be able to do much more on his own. Findekáno considers whether there is a better way to do this, whether he is about to cross a line better left intact, but Russandol’s eyes are dead and helpless and Findekáno can’t really stand it any longer. 

“Back in the shower with you,” he instructs. Russandol obeys. Findekáno reaches for his tunic, shrugging it off his shoulders and stepping deftly out of his trousers. When he’s naked too (and feeling every bit of it), he gets into the tub with Russandol. 

Calmly, deferentially, as if he is doing nothing more than offering Russandol a cup of tea, Findekáno picks up the soap and slides it over Russandol’s bare shoulders, following with the flannel, rubbing it in small, gentle circles. Russandol’s eyes widen in brief surprise and then flutter shut. He rests his weight against the wall, allowing Findekáno to wipe him clean. 

Findekáno keeps his head down against the spray and slides the flannel along Russandol’s arms, his back and his muscled torso. He sets it aside for a moment and picks up the shampoo, tilting Russandol’s head so he can massage the liquid into his hair till it foams and bubbles. Russandol lets out a long sigh as Findekáno’s fingers scrape gently against his scalp. Findekáno is calm, steady, just a pair of hands and the feeling of water hot on his skin. 

He picks up the flannel again and dips it lower, smoothing it against Russandol’s thighs, and then, ducks further down. The floor of the tub is uncomfortably hard as he bends his head as he runs the flannel around Russandol’s calves and over his heels and ankles. He tries not to think of the implications of any of this (bending to his knees, washing Russandol’s feet). He is simply cleaning away the smell of smoke, helping Russandol when Russandol can’t help himself. 

“Findekáno.” Russandol’s voice is hoarse and scratchy—the smoke, Findekáno thinks, and then looks up, blinking water from his eyes, to see that Russandol is looking down at him. He’s come back, at least a little bit, from the great distance that separated them before; he sees Findekáno now, really sees him, and Findekáno can feel it, and for the first time this evening he is truly frightened. 

Russandol buries his hand in Findekáno’s soaking hair, his fingers gentle against his scalp, and then pulls Findekáno’s head into his belly. Findekáno gasps, smelling not smoke now but the soft bright scent of Russandol’s curled hair and the muskiness below. Russandol is half-hard, Findekáno sees, and it seems suddenly ludicrous that Findekáno got into a shower naked with him and didn’t expect this to happen. But he didn’t—Russandol was so listless, so wounded, and Findekáno didn’t even consider engaging in their usual outrageous, irreverent, forbidden games at a time like this.

The trouble is, he doesn’t think Russandol’s considering it now, either. 

This is something else. 

Russandol runs his thumb against the back of Findekáno’s head, softly, tenderly, and Findekáno knows that something is changing, right now, in this tub, in the middle of the night, in Himring, during the winter of 473rd year, of the First Age. They’ve taken the first step, into something different.

He swallows back his fear and takes Russandol into his mouth. 

Russandol lets out a small contented sigh. Findekáno moves his tongue as gently as he had his fingers, lathing up and down and in little circles until Russandol is full and hard and his grip in Findekáno’s hair tightens just a fraction. Findekáno takes more in, still moving slowly, taking his time. He can feel Russandol relaxing bit by bit, sinking bonelessly against the wall. Findekáno risks an eyeful of water to glance up at him and the breath hitches in his throat: Russandol’s head is tipped back, his throat long and sinuous, his eyelashes quivering against his cheeks and his chest rising and falling with the barest irregularity. He looks peaceful in a way Findekáno has never seen him before, and vulnerable, too, open and exposed. 

Findekáno’s rhythm falters as a wave of tenderness and then terror envelops him, and Russandol’s fingers grip Findekáno’s hair in warning. Findekáno pulls off, sucking in air, and holds Russandol’s hip as Russandol shudders and spurts. Russandol draws long, ragged breaths, eyes still closed, until he can manage to stand upright again. 

Findekáno, heart pounding, gets to his feet. He ignores the rawness of his knees (though it smarts). He avoids Russandol’s eyes, too, as he reaches over to turn off the tap. 

“Hey,” Russandol says softly, stopping Findekáno’s hand. Findekáno looks up at him hesitantly, and Russandol draws him in close. Findekáno buries his head in the crook of Russandol’s neck, inhaling his fresh, clean scent; equal parts relieved and unnerved by the embrace. When Russandol’s hand snakes down between his legs he jumps, almost pulling away. 

Russandol quiets him with a gentle shh, and for the second time Findekáno feels ridiculous for not having anticipated this. Russandol’s hand is warm and soft and perfect, and Findekáno allows his cheek to rest against Russandol’s neck as Russandol strokes him firmly and tenderly, touching Findekáno with a quiet deliberation he has seldom shown before. It isn’t long before Findekáno feels heat gathering in his toes and his groin and then he is shuddering, gripping Russandol’s shoulder for support as he comes. 

When Findekáno is sufficiently recovered he reaches again for the tap, and this time Russandol doesn’t stop him. Findekáno steps out of the tub, needing suddenly to put some distance between him and the other man. He towels off his hair, his body, gathering himself, buying himself time before he has to face Russandol, before he sees whatever is—or isn’t—in Russandol’s eyes. 

But when he turns around, Russandol looks unsteady, almost asleep on his feet. Findekáno crosses to him quickly, stopping him from sinking to the ground, and holds him up awkwardly as he wipes him dry. 

“Time for bed,” he says, and his voice sounds strange and unfamiliar to his own ears. 

Russandol nods and allows Findekáno to help him into his clothes and between the sheets of the bed. Russandol’s eyes flutter shut almost immediately, and Findekáno watches him drift into sleep, feeling as though he is drifting, too, as if what happened in the shower untethered him somehow and he is lost, lost, floating into somewhere new without a map. 

He hesitates and then places a soft kiss on Russandol’s forehead. He blows out the candles and turns to go. 

“Thanks Káno,” Russandol mumbles sleepily from the bed. Findekáno swallows, feeling caught, but nothing more is forthcoming. He leaves the room, exits Russandol’s study, makes his way out to the balcony and into the chilly night air of the castle. 

Something has changed. Something has changed, and it isn’t Findekáno’s fault, but he is fairly sure he is the one who will suffer for it. He’d locked up his feelings in a tight little box at the back of his mind and thrown away the key, prepared never to look back. He hadn’t expected Russandol to come along and pick the lock. 

He starts toward the staircase as he remembers: there will be more councils in the morning, more people to convince, Artaresto to reason with. But despite that, all Findekáno thinks of is Russandol - alone in his large bed, and of his own room, cold and dark and silent; and he turns again to the balcony, a flutter of something fragile and pristine and now, finally free starting up in his chest, heralding the end of Findekáno’s brief and beautiful interlude of peace as he watches the faint hints of dawn. Of a new day.


End file.
